Stations of the Cross

[jisbell00]

Stations of the Cross


The birds were hailing me that Easter morning,
as we walked to the lakefront in the crisp
Chicago air, and my mind understood
each note they spoke. You’ll never find a day
that isn’t God’s. St Francis, Brecht averred,
preached to the fowls. The journey home – which lay
just down the road – became complex. A good
deed never goes unpunished, I have heard.
The sky above me opened without warning.

The Stations of the Cross: Christ fell.
I walked them in that Spanish church.
I heard the angels like a bell.
Did God then leave me in the lurch?
We each of us hang on a cross
of our own making. Them’s the breaks.
We play our game of pitch and toss.
We place our bets. We make mistakes.

At Easter Mass, empty your wallet and
hug some bum till you’re stopped by the police.
You do each thing you do at God’s command.
Restraints and Haldol might just bring you peace.